


There's a Reason Violins are Used in Horror and Romance

by Pres310



Series: Luminous Poetry [4]
Category: The Owl House (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Derealization, Drowning, F/F, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Last Words of a shooting star by Mitski, Lumity, Panic Attacks, Poetry, Religious Themes, Song: Take Me To Church (Hozier)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26664763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pres310/pseuds/Pres310
Summary: There's a reason violins are both used in horror and romance- they're sharp and lilting and can be sweet and enticing or horrifying and stark, and sometimes you can't tell the difference.Happens before the events of "The Tale of Amity" but after the events of "Halloween Night Poetry".
Relationships: Amity Blight/Luz Noceda
Series: Luminous Poetry [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904896
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW for childhood trauma, religious themes, derealization, and themes of drowning.
> 
> Okay so a quick disclaimer: because of the whole human/witch thing and because of Internalized Homophobia, there are some references to the Salem witch trials being used as a metaphor for Amity's internalized homophobia. I also realize that references to these trials are often used as TERF dogwhistles (the dogwhistle is technically "witch unburnt" and while I used drowning metaphors, I am still cautious of my words and want to set some things straight), so for future reference: I AM NOT A TERF. As a trans person, I am sickened by TERF's and I hate that I have to add this disclaimer. If you are a TERF reading this, my content is not for you and never will be. I am fully willing to re-write this work if the themes here are too close to these dog whistles and I take full responsibility for This story. I am adding this disclaimer because I know what these dogwhistles are and I do not want TERF's coming to my work, and I do not want anybody thinking that I align with their beliefs.

It's not direct words that stick-  
It's the gentle guiding  
It's the coercing.

  
You never know the ropes that bind you   
Until they scar your arms  
And burn your neck  
When you look the other way.

  
You never know the chair you're tied to  
Until it forces your spine to break  
Or until you turn your back on the air.

  
You never know how heavy your skirts are  
Until you're not the one in charge of them.

  
When they would try to drown me  
I would then try to drown myself  
To take that power away from them  
But at what point does spite turn into malice against myself?

  
I am not human  
In your sense  
I am not a witch  
In your world’s sense;  
But in your arms  
Only then I am human  
Only then I am clean.

  
They drown me in dirty water  
And it stains  
And it chokes  
And yet I drink it.

  
I think I drank it once  
Because I didn't want them to see me  
Unable to breathe.

  
But it covers my lungs  
It hollows out my chest.  
Leaves scrape my ribs   
And the bugs eat my lungs  
And the sticks cut out my heart

  
And I become the heartless   
Breathless being  
You always taught me I was.

  
And if I see that being in the mirror  
With its thousands of eyes  
None of which are its own  
Is that love?

  
That being is hunted and killed;  
When I put myself in front of that arrow  
Or Beneath that dirty water  
Just to say that I exist  
Is it for myself?

  
To become that being  
Am I no longer a child?  
Is my love no longer innocent?

  
I know it is;  
For I am a child.

  
But the dirty water that muddles my brain and heart  
Convinces me that because I was born  
It never could be.

  
And All I want is for that to be false.

  
All I want is to be that child again.

  
*.*.*

  
Her name is Amity- she’s a poet and she doesn't know what she’s doing.

  
Her brain has been addled for so long and she doesn't know the time- where is she? Where is she, Amity? Why are her hands shaking- what is her face buried in? What does she keep repeating with that small, childish-but-not-a-child’s voice of her’s? Because Titan knows that something about her is too wrong to ever be-

  
“Amity,” that voice is far too gentle for somebody like her. “Amity- Amity, no, there’s nothing wrong with you.” Her face- her face is buried in somebody’s soft shirt, and her hands are shaking and tightly gripping a pair of hands above her head. They untangle a bit too roughly from her’s, also rattling with fear, and Amity feels physical shock overtake her and sends her reeling back. She looks up with shaking, frightened eyes and a face all too pale.

  
“I’m- m’ sorry,” her voice is watery in a way that makes her want to gag on her words. The taste of bile and tears and her own fear and words is milky and uncomfortable on her tongue.

  
“Hey- hey, don't be sorry,” The figure in front of her kneels down so gently and Amity is convinced right then and there that humans really got something right with angels, for better or for worse. It's so beautiful- with round, dark eyes and short, soft hair, and such a birdlike body that it must have wings. It's ears are round, because of course they are, because of course witches weren't made in angels' image. And it terrifies Amity so deeply to be so close to an angel. “Amity, what's wrong?”

  
Amity can't speak; and the electricity coursing through her brain is doing so much more than the conformatorium ever could.

  
Amity just wants to be that innocent child again.

  
“But you are,” a voice says, and it's not the angel’s, and Amity thinks of it more than she can hear it. It- it looks like Eda. The voice looks like Eda, a real, definite person in the real world. Amity is real. Amity is here. And Amity is going to be okay.

  
“I don't- I don't know,” and that's the honest truth. Amity has never known why her mind does what it does to her… but she’s beginning to think that it's not her fault and that it's not what makes her. The “Angel”, in reality, Luz, asks a question Amity can't quite hear but she finds herself nodding “yes” anyways. Luz surprises her by wrapping her arms around Amity, embracing her soft and not particularly tight, but it still pulls Amity towards her and almost stabilizes her. Amity feels less like she’s going to panic and shake so much that she’ll just fall apart. Amity hugs her back and it doesn't feel wrong like she expects it to.

  
She suspects that that's what growth can be, in its many forms.

  
“That's alright,” Luz coos. “You're gonna be alright, Amity.” Amity believes her. She wants to believe her so much. And suddenly Amity is struck with the need to move because her head pressed into Luz’s shirt, her hands tightly tied together with Luz’s, is all too familiar of an image and the mental image of a cold, empty, wrong-feeling throne room is all too fresh in either of their minds. Amity slumps down, laying on her back, Luz adjusting to cuddle up to her girlfriend.

  
The warm feeling that fills Amity’s chest replaces the soggy, scraping hollowness that wants to take over. She reasons that she isn't drowning and that this can't be wrong- that Luz can't be wrong. Luz rests her head on Amity’s collarbone and the familiar weight reminds her both that she has a heartbeat and that it's slowing down, and that it doesn't make her fear death. Amity is calming down- nothing is coming to rip this moment away. Amity thinks, for a fleetingly hopeful moment, that her life is so entwined with Luz’s that nobody could pick it apart.


	2. But Violin's Aren't the Only Instrument-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -And Horror and romance don't have to live hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to "Last Words of a Shooting Star" and vibed a little too hard, oops-

All of this turbulence wasn't forecasted;  
Apologies from the intercom

  
I could always love you  
Turbulence aside  
I know my flying skills are  
No better than yours.

  
We learn together  
And I smile so softly  
When your hands stop shaking  
I’ll hold them as long as you need them to be still.

  
We both always wanted to die clean and pretty;  
Had we ever considered  
Living that way?

  
I don't think I have  
But now when I see you  
I could never imagine  
That white marble grave.

  
You were relieved that you left your room tidy;  
I was relieved that you were still here.

  
I’ll never know  
What they think of me  
And I hope you can forget  
After so many years.

  
All of this turbulence wasn't forecasted;  
But I’ll help you when  
You climb out of the water.

  
*.*.*

  
Luz doesn't like to stand helpless during flashbacks like this, and she knows that embracing Amity so quickly isn't the wisest decision, and she is so thankful when Amity relaxes. She traces small shapes on the witch’s shoulder and doesn't pry for now- she knows Amity trusts her enough to talk about it eventually, and she loves her so much for that. So for now, she’ll listen to Amity’s heartbeat, the sound thudding so gently in Luz’s ear, and she’ll let Amity wrap her still shaking arms around her a little tighter than usual.

  
“Hey Luz?” Amity’s voice is scratchy, probably from sobbing. 

  
“Yeah?”

  
“In the human world, uhh… did- did anybody ever tell you that liking girls was wrong?” With the surprised silence from Luz, Amity continues. “I guess- it's really not common in the Boiling Isles, but some of the upper class families just…”

  
“A few people did,” Luz quietly says. “It's… a lot more common on earth. I hate it.” Amity stays quiet, and Luz assumes that's the end of that conversation. And that's alright. The silence is comfortable and warming up, even if they are cuddled up together on the floor of Luz’s room. Luz… can't fully understand how Amity is feeling, but she does understand that she has some things to work through. They both do. And Luz knows that they can pull each other through this together.

  
And so for now, they stay on that bedroom floor, limbs comfortably tangled and unfinished poems drawn with gentle fingers on each other’s skin.


End file.
